


We Own The Night, You Can Have Everything Else

by Aurora Cee (SC182)



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Horror, Lost Boys AU, M/M, POV Alternating, Time Skips, Wall of Weird, freaks of the week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/Aurora%20Cee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things aren’t like they used to be in Smallville.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Own The Night, You Can Have Everything Else

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a Smallville meets Lost Boys AU. This story was written during Smallville's season 6. Maybe one day I'll expand on the universe. For now, this is a standalone story. Written in 2011.
> 
> Thanks to Rednihilist for the beta read!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein. The Smallville characters are the property of their creators, the CW and Warner Brothers. Any deviation (or deviant behavior) from the originals, however, is mine.

Change was a fact of life. It happened to all things, like a force of nature; it shaped the world and stirred hearts and minds. It took form in the flap of a butterfly’s wings or grander phenomena, natural and unnatural alike. The worst change came as a consequence of dark machinations.  
  
It happened here in a small town, where farmers continued to meet Saturday mornings to sell crops, and gossip spread was as genteel as everyday pleasantries. A place where news traveled faster than a gas fire; a town where all the citizens knew each other and their family lines stretched long and winding, as entrenched in the soil as the trees and corn on the plains.  
  
The daylight held such promise.  
  
The night guaranteed pure fear.  
  
As the sun sank lower, shadows stretched like inky fingers creating another town, a doppelganger whose open spaces beckoned while the signs of life diminished with each passing second. Stirrings of fear bubbled inside the waiting townspeople, knowing that the nightly evil scourge would come soon. Time was precious, quickly bleeding away into twilight.  
  
This was Martha Kent’s normal market day. Months before, she and her son could linger with friends and neighbors as the stars emerged in the sky; today, lingering would leave them in a terribly vulnerable position. Underestimating the time it would take them to finish had led to Martha volunteering Clark to help old Mrs. Peterson carry her groceries inside, though it slipped her mind that the old war widow had a mouth that went on like a rambling motor. Martha waited for Clark inside of Nell’s flower shop, hoping her son would return sooner than later.  
  
Streetlights flickered on, making all those who stood on the streets grow still. The air felt charged and the world became mute, save for one sound, the volume of which grew in proportion to the fear within the town's residents.  
  
Clark heard it almost as soon as his mother--the roar of motorcycle engines. Martha handed over the money more forcefully than she had hoped and begged off receiving her change from Nell, who looked slightly relieved.  
  
Clark hurried down the street to his mother, neither sure who intercepted whom, but she pulled him towards the truck. The last thing they wanted was to be stuck outside with _them_. He put on a burst of speed as he tossed their bags into the bed of the truck and stilled as the noise grew. But it was the side view mirror, like the perspective of some old Hitchcock film that spotlighted their arrival, like a black cloud atop steel beasts.  
  
Martha's breath caught; Clark could only stare. She slid inside the truck slowly, but Clark remained watching the group that stopped about a block away in front of Jefferson’s Bakery.  
  
Sensing they were being watched, two of the bikers turned his way after removing their helmets. One wore a smile that would make a hyena proud; the other bore a handsome mask of cool indifference.  
  
Martha’s grip was deceptively strong. "Clark, get in the truck," she whispered firmly. His mother's words rang like a drum cadence in his ears. But he was very much frozen in place by the gazes of the boys down the street. Lost in the eyes of the indifferent one, even though it was the jackal that loomed closer. She pulled him back into the cab and he actually managed to close the door, despite his uncooperative limbs.  
  
The boy waited outside his window, grinning before he tapped on the glass. "Aw, Mrs. Kent, we just wanted to catch up with him,” Wade drawled with fake innocence, “you know…like old times." He smirked and stroked the window.  
  
The old Ford vibrated with life and age. She stared back at the young man daringly and mustered all her will to not betray how afraid she was of Wade, who was a wild predator and the embodiment of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Turning the wheel slowly, they left the lot. She waited until she reached the long road that led out to the farm to gun the engine.  
  
Her heart pounded in her throat as she drove, the pedal pressed closer to the floor, not even letting up when she noticed the farm’s lights growing brighter as they closed the distance between town and home. Martha looked over at her son, who was very much hunched into himself. It was too hard to be disappointed with him for his reaction.  
  
She and Jonathan knew things would be hard for him, but their decision had been for his own good. Whitney had always been such a good boy, but now he was one of _them_. His fall into darkness was his own fault and they wouldn't allow their son to be hurt. Not again if they could help it.  
  
Whitney masked himself in the thing that he was. His emotions no longer showed like a real person's, or at least he pretended they didn’t. Whitney almost did a good job, save for when he would see Clark. His eyes would catch a light that spoke of conflict and joy. If Whitney were a reluctant beast, then Wade was his foil—a true monster reveling in his dark power. They owned the night, capable of blending in with the darkness.  
  
Her Metropolis instincts were still with her, making her ready for action. Many had left Smallville, while others refused to leave, thinking that the things that haunted them would somehow go away.  
  
She knew why Whitney stayed with the group. He wanted her son. He'd better keep dreaming, she thought, because she would never let that happen again.  


* * *

  
Something caused Clark to wake up.  
  
The creak of a floorboard.  
  
A change in the air.  
  
Clark sat up in bed. Even in the pure darkness he could see, as a solid shadow in the night reached out and pushed him back down. The shadow grew closer and sank down by the side of his bed and proceeded to rub his chest. It stroked the center as if it could lull the thundering of his heart back to calmness.  
  
"We'll get out of here," the shadow said, whispering.  
  
"I know." Clark slid his hand over the other that was entirely made of cold flesh and blood. "You can always touch me there."  
  
A stripe of moonlight separated them. The shadow came closer. "I know." Whitney's lips landed on his, sucking his breath away as his hands tangled in Clark's hair and Clark moaned softly against Whitney’s mouth. The kiss did not last much longer, but it left them red-cheeked, flushed with excitement and renewed energy, but mostly breathless.  
  
Whitney pressed his cool forehead against Clark’s. He took the opportunity to inhale Clark’s delicious scent, a scent so spicy and sweet that Whitney burned with want. "Don't draw attention to yourself," he growled as his hunger for Clark grew.  
  
With a silent nod, Clark agreed. Whitney slipped out just as he’d come in through the walls and out into the garden. Clark settled back into his bed, savoring the memory of Whitney's hands and breath on him.  
  
One day, Whit would get through this. Overcome his own demons and break away from the new one that had taken the place of his father in controlling his life. Until then, Clark would take his advice and bring no more attention to himself.   


Clark dreamed of kisses while he slept.

* * *

  
The backdoor slammed. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Jonathan coming in from feeding the cows. She poured him a cup of coffee and returned her attention to making breakfast, though her eyes lingered on the stack of mail on the countertop.  
  
It wasn’t an early delivery. It was simply Tuesday, which had come to hold a special place ever since everything changed. Tuesday brought letters from Julian Alexander. Not that she was one to pry, but after the first occurrence she'd thought she might have left something in the mailbox by accident. When the incident turned into a trend the following week, she’d become curious.  
  
She should have known. Julian—the name of child who didn’t survive and Alexander, the name of the one who did.  
  
Jonathan looked over her shoulder. “Another one.” He knew quite well that it was another one. Another letter to Clark, where the writer talked about his mundane life in the city and closed it with promises of a better future. Always so optimistic despite residing in the belly of the beast.  
  
Jonathan took his coffee cup and headed to the table. He issued a small sniff before he took a sip of the steaming brew. What could he really say about Lex, the young man who had saved his son from a situation that meant certain death under normal circumstances for anyone else? Lex saved Clark from a furnace and as a consequence had inadvertently learned Clark’s secrets.  
  
“I’ll give it to Clark when he gets up,” Martha promised. They all stayed awake later these days. Had to. Those dormant, yet innate, survival instincts had kicked in after the town was put under siege by the pack of meteor-tattooed bikers, who, like all the meteor infected, had become something else.  
  
The evil things that they were spread into their dreams, bringing into them the sound of terrified animals screaming in the night.  
  
They let Clark sleep in, because they knew he rarely did at night. He was always up in time for school and tried to put on a sunny exterior, like they all did, because there wasn’t any other way. Because this was their home and they wouldn’t leave.  
  
Martha took the last of the pancakes off the stove and placed them on the table. Overhead, she could hear Clark moving around, finally up for the day.  
  
The town had faced challenges before related to the meteors. They had all heard about the mutations and special gifts that started emerging after what seemed like only a night. This menace was their own. A bunch of spoiled boys with too much power and no one to stop them, they had the town by the throat, and its citizens scared. Combined with the disappearances, Smallville seemed far too tiny for its own good.  
  
“Morning!” Martha smiled as Clark sat at the table. Good, they were acting natural and normal.  
  
She kissed his cheek and patted his hair. It was so soft, making it nearly impossible to resist touching it again. “Morning, sweetheart,” she said and kissed his cheek.  
  
Clark sat at the table. “Morning, son.” Jonathan passed a pitcher of juice over the table.  
  
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get up this morning. I don’t know where my head’s at--”  
  
Jonathan picked up his newspaper. “Don’t worry. There will be plenty of chores for you this afternoon. Just make sure you get back quickly. ” That meant being careful using his speed.  
  
“Here, this was in the mailbox for you.” Martha dropped the letter by Clark’s plate before continuing to finish breakfast. They didn’t ask anymore about the letters, but sometimes he shared them.  
  
Martha and Jonathan pretended not to watch Clark as he read by trying to look otherwise occupied, but they couldn’t. Lex left Smallville right before it all went to hell. But every week in his letters, he always managed to leave thm with the hope that this would be over soon.  
  
“Lex says that we need to be careful. They’re becoming even more active at night. He said three more people came in this week. ”  
  
Three more people? Three more meteor infected people that had been kidnapped in the dead of night? Either unknowingly trying to protect themselves or getting caught using their abilities.  
  
Clark folded the letter and stuffed it inside the pocket of his flannel shirt. “We’ll all heed his advice, won't we?” Martha said, before they began breakfast. It was a quiet affair, as they all tried not to think about who was taken or how easy it could happen to Clark.  
  
At least Lex was working to solve the problem. He was the inside man, the best friend their son could ever have after he realized that he could be Clark’s biggest weakness. After Clark’s words settled over Lex, he realized what a liability he was to Clark. Lionel was always watching him, wanting to catch him off guard and test him somehow. Learning Clark’s secret would be like trying to swallow the sun. They’d all be doomed.  
  
He made a choice to leave Smallville that day, but not without letting Clark know everything-- his plans for stopping his father, and his plans for them. Lex said Clark would never owe him anything, that this was a test, one that Lex couldn't afford to fail. He had so much faith in this shared future between them. Lex saw this as a trial before they could fulfill their destiny. Their stuff of legends. Lex and Clark.  
  
Lex loved Clark—truly, madly, deeply, and beyond reason. Clark loved Lex, too. Clark had tried to convince him not to leave and ultimately failed. Lex proved himself to Jonathan, Martha, and anyone else who might learn the story. Never would they question again that he was an honorable man.  
  
But there was something else. Martha wasn’t sure how Whitney fit into all of this. Frankly, she wanted him to stay as far away from Clark as possible. He cared for her son, so much so that he was the one who'd brought him back to them after they'd taken him.  
  
They ate breakfast in silence as they often did now. It was another day. Another set of worries, but they’d make it. They had to; there was no other option.  
  
One day, they'd ride away from this place and be free.  
  
Clark could hardly wait.  


* * *

  
  
Clark sat beside Pete, who turned to him  with raised brows and asked him quietly, “Did y'all make it okay last night?”  
  
“Yeah,” Pete said. “You?”  
  
“We’re fine.”  
  
They didn’t talk much more than that. Most people didn’t. There was a fear in the town that they could hear you. If they did, then no one would see you again. The ride seemed interminable because of the oppressive semi-silence that fell over the riders.  
  
When they reached Smallville High, the bus slowed down in such a way that the engine whined and groaned; the noises reflected the inner turmoil of the students and not even Mrs. Harper’s almost wishful pursing of her lips could change the course of the day.  
  
“Have you seen Chloe?” Clark asked Pete as they exited the school bus.  
  
When Pete looked up at Clark, he noticed where his friend’s eyes had traveled and he didn’t look longer than a second before he began to pull the great immobile wall of Clark towards the front steps. “Let’s go, dude.”  
  
Signs that _they_ had been there stood out on the warm concrete, before disappearing into the woods. Lines of scorched rubber pitch streaked north towards the school and arched suddenly, pushing back to the road then fanned out into multiple points that formed a tight circle near the old tree that stood as a marker between the school and the woods. It was a marker, the place where they’d fed on one of their own, one of the meteor-infected, in order to sate their hunger.  
  
He wondered who had been their unlucky victim.  
  
Clark began to move, finally following Pete’s lead as the memory of Wade’s smirk flashed through his head, a memory of a terribly wide spectacle of teeth and predatory satisfaction, a full-on demon’s grin. The evening before, Wade blew Clark a kiss and winked cheekily at him in the rearview mirror. Clark’s eyes hadn’t strayed to Whitney, whose faraway look remained stark despite the widening distance.  
  
He shook himself out of the memory and followed Pete into school, where the sound of voices returned and gave the building a semblance of life other than that of the walking dead. He returned to his first question, “What about Chloe?”  
  
Pete sighed. “Clark--” He shook his head. “Her dad’s dropping her off today.”  
  
There was something more that Pete needed to say, but this moment wasn’t the time. And the more he thought about it, the more terrified for Clark he became. His best friend could do a great many things, but without Lex, Chloe, and Pete to assist him along the way and keep him under the radar, Pete wondered how long it would take for others to notice.  


* * *

  
Sometimes, they waited out the hours until the sun sank.  
  
The old millhouse at the end of Potter’s Field had become their place of refuge. Big enough to store their bikes, the millhouse was the perfect place to sleep with its old dry grain cellars underground and light tight. They slept their days away with little worry of discovery. Without the pull of the sun, they could remain awake, living their lives in their subterranean paradise with little care for what was happening topside.  
  
Whitney stood by a glass port that doubled as a window on the floor of the old structure. He found watching the occasional rat or spider skitter across the floor more fascinating than his brothers tinkering with their bikes.  
  
Wade lazily flipped his lighter open and shut. The flames danced back and forth with each successive flick of his wrist. Van tinkered with his motorcycle, posturing and praising his own genius, while Eric watched his waving fingers, captivated by every word.  
  
Whitney hung back, hunched in the shadows mostly, his eyes drawn to the clear patches within the dust and grime covered windows of their clubhouse. His eyes were trained on the grassy patch some twenty yards away. A cloud of fireflies swarmed over the tall grass, the movement humdrum and crazy. It was a display of chaos in motion. Beyond that, there was a wall of corn.  
  
Corn as high as an elephant’s eye. Though he wondered when was the last time any elephants had roamed free in Kansas.  
  
The corn still haunted him, terrified him more than how much his life had begun to resemble _Lord of the Flies_. The stalks swayed listlessly. Wind cutting through the building as it went, a faint memory of _help me_ was carried on the wind, sending a shudder down his spine.  
  
The cold echo of breath on his back told him that his quiver had not gone unnoticed.  


* * *

  
  
**Before**  
  
It was simple enough--a joke that Wade insisted on seeing through as the freshmen wandered the halls of Smallville High. One of them would be their sacrifice, their payment to the harvest gods. Whitney’d nearly snorted and laughed when Wade had informed them of their plans for the evening.  
  
All the guys had been making their picks. Van and Eric’s pick was Pete Ross. The short freshman had actually mouthed off to them outside the Beanery. The kid was of a mind that because he was a football player that meant he was safe. Eric and Van wanted to show him otherwise.  
  
“I want him.” Van signaled with his head.  
  
Eric was literally hopping in his anticipation. “Yeah, that one. I want him too.”  
  
Wade shook his head and insinuated himself between the two guys. He shook his head and made a soft disapproving sound. “That’s a good one, but I’m looking for a whopper. A real whale…”  
  
Van scoffed, annoyed. “You know our piggy will squeal as soon as we tie him to the post…Watch him mouth off then.”  
  
Wade shook his head as he watched the freshmen swarm the halls. “We need another one,” Wade replied almost off handedly as his gaze swept over the crowd.  
  
“But--” Eric began, but was stopped cold by Wade’s look of warning.  
  
“Pick. Another. One,” Wade growled.  
  
Whitney knew what Wade was getting at, he understood where the guy's mind was going, and again the fact that he knew that was almost eerie. It was Smallville. What could he say?  
  
Wade’s gaze swept over the crowd. His eyes landed on an interesting prospect and remained there as a smile came to his lips; his target was in sight. Whitney groaned internally.  
  
Of course, Wade would pick the one person who would possibly stand a chance against them, in the hypothetical sense, but in reality was probably their best candidate for bullying.  
  
Clark Kent. Son of Jonathan and Martha Kent. He was the quintessential example of sweet and innocent. And he’d received the attention of Whitney’s eye since the kid’s sudden growth spurt two years ago.  
  
Whitney allowed his eyes and mind to wander towards Clark Kent. The kid was like everything he ever wanted, but was too afraid to take. He liked Kent’s hope and optimism. his sunny smiles, since he’d lost his own some time ago—had it stolen from him when his dad died, his football dreams crushed, and his mother deciding to move elsewhere as a result.  
  
Lana represented past, another life that haunted him at every turn. Clark had a future away from this monument to depression. That fact alone made Whitney seethe.  
  
“Him.” Wade’s voice sliced through his thoughts and he swallowed heavily. He held his breath before he felt Wade’s eyes on him, asking for his opinion. Whit’s opinion was the only one that actually mattered in their little group.  
  
Wade knew little things, just as sure as Whitney could see that spark of lust in Wade’s eye. “That’s your choice?” It was an incredulous question coupled with truthful observation of what was to be. Eric and Van could rally around the choice of the too quiet, too pretty geek.  
  
He could stop this, but he didn’t, a little curious in his own right about what was to come of Wade’s stupid little game. It happened that four hours later, they had Clark stripped to his shorts and kneeling in the dirt. The corn gave them a perfect cover.  
  
The kid looked sick, so damn ill, as he was pushed and pulled and finally settled against the post with his arms tied behind his back. His golden clear skin was tinted green in the dusky light or maybe that was how it appeared because of all the corn.  
  
The ball inside of the spray paint can rattled viciously as Wade shook it. His eyes rested solely on Clark’s, whose head rolled back and forth across his slumped shoulders. His moans were incoherent sounds of pain. True pain. It hurt Whitney to listen.  
  
“Let’s alert the gods to our intentions.” Wade uncapped the can and sprayed the paint over the center of Clark’s exposed chest. The kid jerked and yanked at his bindings to no avail. The cold whisper of red paint settled over his chest. It was his scarlet letter.  
  
An S.  
  
S was for scab.  
  
Scum.  
  
Slut.  
  
Sacrifice.  
  
They untied him then and Eric and Van took their positions as Clark’s guards. He made broken pleas for them to stop, his breath coming out in stuttering stops like the clutches of asthma or panic had seized hold of the boy’s chest.  
  
Wade always had little games. Little eccentricities that the others found cool, but Whitney found creepy. It was just Wade’s way, just like nonchalance was Whitney’s. “A jewel for our sacrifice.” The green stone glowed with an unearthly light. It matched Clark’s too green eyes as he struggled in the grips of Eric and Van.  
  
“Do it. Do it. Do it!” Eric chanted.  
  
Van howled like a wolf as Wade approached and Whitney felt sick.  
  
Whitney watched as Wade stepped forward, smile in place, and slipped the chain over Clark’s head. It was like the kid deflated. Wade tapped each shoulder lightly and smiled as he dubbed Clark their official sacrifice in the middle of this skewed vision of a royal knighting. Clark’s legs collapsed beneath him and the other two doubled their efforts to hold him upright.  
  
Frozen by his indecision and inactivity, Whitney could only listen as Clark’s moans penetrated into his heart and buried themselves deep.  
  
Wade trailed his hand down the side of Clark’s skin. Swollen veins stood in its wake. “Such a pretty face--” He crowed at the group. “I think the gods will be happy tonight. This is a sacrifice befitting gods.”  
  
The newest toy that Wade had liberated from its owners was removed from his jacket--a glittering knife with black curling etchings in the blade. He twirled the blade between his fingers. The brilliant ‘S’ on Clark’s chest began to drip, like tears of blood from the eyes of the Madonna as sweat beaded on his chest. Wade watched a lone pearl rise and fall, slide down the slope of Clark’s developed chest muscles, and settle atop his nipple like a ripe cherry.  
  
Whitney would have found it hot if he weren't so scared of what was to come. Wade liked the fear. He liked having control.  
  
“What do you say, boys?” He turned around to regard the other three. “Would the gods like a little blood with their sacrifice?” Wade leered.  
  
Van nodded, hesitantly, probably thinking this was going a little too far. “Just a little,” he agreed finally.  
  
Of course anything Van said was parroted by Eric. Wade turned to Whitney, who was still looking at Clark’s wheezing frame crucified to the scarecrow cross. “Come on, this is over the top. Let the kid go.”  
  
Wade shook his head disapprovingly and returned to Clark. “This might sting a little.” As lightning flashed overhead, the blade swept across Clark’s chest along the side of the red S.  
  
“I think that’s enough…” Whitney said without any real force behind it.  
  
And so, Wade continued to slice open long stripes over Clark’s immaculate skin.  
  
As garnet streams swept down Clark’s chest, Whitney realized that the time to act was now. Wade had gone much further than he expected and the last thing Whitney wanted was for Clark to get seriously hurt. Spraying an ‘S’ on Clark’s chest was one thing; slicing him open like a frog in science class was another.  
  
“What are you doing?” Whitney yelled.  
  
He could see blood dripping from the knife. Wade shrugged as he watched the viscous drops sail to the ground. “Let’s go.” Eric and Van moved to gather up all their stuff without a second thought. Whitney, however, looked between Clark and Wade.  
  
“We can’t leave him like this.” Whitney moved towards the cross, but stopped when Wade’s heavy hand descended on his arm. His grip was tight and iron-like, absolute and unyielding like the fire in his eyes.  
  
Wade’s brown eyes looked as black as coal. “We’ll be back later. He's still daisy enough to wait a bit.”  
  
Clark was shaking, pale, and his breathing sounded erratic, rattling through his chest like the hurdle of a pebble down a well. “That might be too late.”  
  
“I promise,” Wade said so sincerely. “He’ll be okay.”  
  
The unease of it made Whitney want to untie Clark then and there, but the sincerity in Wade’s voice, that deep and dark certainty that all would be fine made him follow, made him turn his back on Clark’s small voice crying, “Help me.”  
  
Wade made them walk through the woods until they stopped at some stupid Indian artifact. They had all the essentials for a post-sacrifice party: beer and tunes. That satisfied Eric and Van, but Wade stared at the sky, watching the clouds roll forward and rumble violently. Any minute now, the cold would be followed by rain.  
  
Lightning flashed and reflected off of Wade’s euphoric smile. “All right guys, this is it.”  
  
He moved them into position around the stone tablet. Each of them faced a corner. “What the hell are we doing, Wade?” Van asked, a bit too tipsy.  
  
“Finishing what we started.” He removed the knife from its sheath, blood now dry and black under moonlight. Van and Eric were literally too drunk to realize what Wade made them do. Their tongues slid across the surface, taking in the dried essence of the kid they'd just crucified. When he stopped at Whit, he held it up between them and pressed their heads together with his free hand. What remained of the blood came off on their lips and enough slipped inside.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Whitney grabbed Wade, who laughed. He shook Wade until the laughter quieted.  
  
Wade held up his hands in defeat, not fighting Whitney’s hold on his arms. “Almost done.”  
  
All knowing panic, the kind that stabbed the gut and shot a burst of adrenaline into the veins, forced Whitney to react. “What game are you playing, man? This is batshit crazy.” Clark was bleeding in another field instead of being simply humiliated and Wade was—Wade was getting all of them to drink the remaining blood on the knife like they were in some sicko cult.  
  
Wade twirled about on the altar until he reached his position. He cast one of those green meteor stones that were a dime a dozen into the center. Thunder rolled over head. Whitney had had enough; his foot began to slip backwards so that he could break into a run when the earth shook, sending fire through his veins. His body felt like it was riding a wave of solid heat which sprang up from the stone in the center and coursed through his body filling every cell, every pore, as the fire was divided between the four of them.  
  
Then it was over and they were once again in the cold dead of night.  
  
His chest ached like iron claws were buried in his flesh, burning and tearing when he lurched forward and awake. Mouthfuls of air were swallowed as he was suddenly reoriented with the world. The other three lay silent as smoke continued to rise from their bodies.  
  
Whitney climbed to his feet and ran. His feet moved faster than he’d expected, moving forward with a single-minded intensity. He fled into the corn. He had to get to the corn.  
  
He made it back to the random little spot where they left him. Clark’s head hung limply to the side, his body cold like the night air. “H-help,” he gasped shakily. His plea floated in the wind.  
  
Whitney moved forward and laid his hand upon Clark’s chest. The heat that poured from within caused Clark to jump and make a stronger noise. Clark’s blood, dried upon his chest, called to him. Had a sweet smell that stirred something within Whitney.  
  
Hunger.  
  
Clark raised his head to look at Whitney. Those spring green eyes held Whit’s blues ones. There was want, need, and desire all riding that electric spark inside of him. Clark’s pulse was stronger. He seemed to be just as affected as Whitney. Clark’s wrists quivered against the rope.  
  
The trance was broken then as Clark pulled futilely at his bindings. Whitney began clawing at the ropes and found his fingers close to tearing the tightly wound material. He’d think about it later, first he needed to free Clark so that he could feel his warmth.  
  
A beam of light fell on the bottom of the cross. The stalks shook as someone moved through them. He held up a finger indicating Clark should remain silent. The boy looked at him with imploring green eyes; Whit rubbed Clark’s leg for assurance.  
  
He could see it in his eyes: Clark’s fear that the others were coming back. If they did, he wouldn’t allow them to touch Clark ever again. In the corn, he kneeled and waited for the flashlight wielder to make himself seen. He was never more relieved to see Lex Luthor in his life.  
  
Luthor almost dropped his flashlight at the sight of his rescuer suspended from the wooden post. He made quick work of untying the ropes that bruised Clark’s wrist. Clark fell forward then and it took everything in Whitney’s body to not run out to catch him. Lex caught him and held him with an arm wrapped about his waist. He even helped Clark remove the necklace. It fell in the dirt without a sound.  
  
As Whitney watched Luthor hold Clark upright, the world around him spoke and his senses were in a battle to realign themselves. The soil smelled like pure earth and the corn breathed in his ear. The sweat on Clark’s body glistened like diamonds ready to be plucked from his chest.  
  
Luthor literally dragged Clark away, though Clark’s head remained focused on Whitney, eyes again imploring and not angry. Whatever happened this night had brought them together and something more was to come, something far worse.  


* * *

**Now**   


“If you keep staring out the window, something might catch fire…If we’re lucky,” Wade whispered darkly in Whitney’s ear.  
  
Whitney turned and regarded Wade with a cold stare. Though, Wade took his frigid nature in stride now. “Our boy looked good last night and today.” They still thought alike. And what made Wade so happy was the fact that he and Whit were attracted to the same person.  
  
Wade still hadn’t told him why he’d chosen Clark. But he knew to leave Clark alone when in Whitney’s sight.  
  
Wade leaned his shoulder on the wall, a way to watch Whitney’s face better. “A penny for your thoughts?”  
  
And the boy hadn’t been touched since.  
  
“Just thinking,” Whit muttered.  
  
Eric jumped on his cycle. “That’s all we can do. The day screws us over.” He maneuvered his silent bike. “How many more hours?”  
  
Van watched the clock. “ Six.”  
  
Wade voice sing-songed in Whitney’s ear. “To be in your head for six hours has to be awfully boring.” He placed the lighter in front of Whit’s nose and snapped it shut. “C'mon, the old man isn’t happy.”  
  
Whit shuttered at the thought. It was one thing to resemble a soulless creature; it was another to work for one. “We’re going to rot for what we do.”  
  
“Not yet, we won’t.” Wade purred in his ear. “—And not without _him_.”  
  
The vigil of the corn resumed, his anger simmering. In the daylight, they were on equal footing and it would be too easy for either of them to get hurt or overly tired. Every night, he pushed himself a little more. They’d get out of Smallville before it was too late.  


* * *

  
Clark finally caught sight of Chloe around lunchtime. He saw her duck inside the Torch’s office as he came up the hall. She’d missed the first two periods, which was odd in itself, and even though Pete had promised she would be in school, Clark had already started to worry.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Chloe dropped her files in hand into an open box before turning to face Clark. “Hey, yourself.”  
  
“You missed class.” He trailed off as he took in the state of the office. A few books and many folders were laid across the desk surface and stacked by the computer.  
  
She leaned against the desk and nodded mournfully. Immediately, this drew Clark closer, concern etched across his face and the desire to help pulsing through his veins. “I know…Things are really complicated .”  
  
Clark looked around the office. He lifted past issues and dropped them gently back on the desk. “Can I help?”  
  
Chloe smiled at him. Despite the bruises beneath her eyes, she still managed to look at him with soft eyes that made him want to look away.“I don’t think you can fix it this time, big guy.”  
  
Clark sheepishly ducked his head. “I could try.” Even if it was _them_ , he could try.  
  
“We heard them two nights ago outside our house.” She rubbed her eyes tiredly, a mix of exhaustion and frustration written across her face. “ My dad put in for a transfer not long after Lex left, but after Tina Greer--” She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and shuffling some of her loose notes to distract herself, “he wants to leave as soon as possible.”  
  
According to the Smallville Sheriff, Chloe was the last person to see Tina Greer alive. Mrs. Greer was frantic to find her daughter; that was three weeks ago. Her mother, like most of Smallville’s residents, suspected that her disappearance was due to her ill-hidden specialness.  
  
It had felt awful when Lex left, even with him hiding so much at that point. This though, the possibility of Chloe leaving, made his heart quiver and feet completely fragile. “You’re leaving?”  
  
“They said they would use me to sniff them out, Clark.” Her fierce brown eyes shook in anger. “Wade _thanked me_ for introducing them to Tina. It’s my fault--” Words slip away into a void of strangled breath. This was Chloe’s guilt.  
  
His arms were instantly around her. Chloe clutched Clark tightly like an anchor; he buoyed her depressed spirits. “It scared the hell out of my dad. He didn’t want me to come to school, but he compromised on giving me a half day to pack up my stuff here.”  
  
Clark would give anything to have her stay, but knowing the weight on her conscience and the dangers each night brought, he couldn’t begrudge her and her dad for leaving. “You can’t let them run you out of here, Chlo.” Wade would derive too much pleasure from the fact.  
  
“If they ever found the Wall, I’d be sending so many people into pure hell.” She looked him in the eye. “There are a lot people who could get hurt and I couldn’t live with myself if my friends were too.” The expression on her face dared him to argue with her, spoke of their silent agreement to never acknowledge his own difference, let alone the possibility of hers.  
  
“We’ll be careful,” Clark promised.  
  
Her next hug was short as she darted in and released him. She stared up at him; the scrutiny of her big brown eyes made him nervous because he could see the genuine war between her feelings of loyalty and her unyielding love for him.  
  
She stacked back issues of the Torch into neat piles. She turned towards the wall hiding the Wall of Weird and gazed longingly at the work amassed. “I feel terrible that we’re leaving you like this.”  
  
“You and your dad are doing what’s best for you.”  
  
Chloe sighed. Apparently, it had been left to her to drop another bombshell on Clark. One was hard, but two left her with a hollow feeling in her gut. “Pete--”  
  
“What about Pete?” Clark frowned.  
  
She exhaled tiredly and rubbed Clark’s arms gently, conveying sorrow and regret. “He’s leaving too.”  
  
First, Lex. Now Chloe and Pete. Clark could fathom why Lex and Chloe would leave. The fact that his longest and truest friend was abandoning him hurt deeply and terribly.  
  
“He’s not abandoning you,” Chloe insisted.  
  
He would have asked her how she knew, but she always told him that his face was an open book. “Give him a chance to explain. You know it’s not his fault.” Clark knew it wasn’t Pete’s fault. It was his fault for not telling Clark himself.  
  
Funny how secrets always came back to bite you in the ass.  
  
“I know things have been bad lately…” That was an understatement at the very least. Resigning himself for what would come to pass, Clark hugged Chloe again and attempted to place a somewhat non-injured look on his face. It’ll suck to be here without you guys.”  
  
Chloe pulled away and went over to her desk. She removed a small notebook from the top desk drawer. “I’m sure you’ll find things to keep you occupied.” Someone, she meant, rather than things. She was the only person to have witnessed one of Whitney’s secret visits to Clark.  
  
The tiny black notebook was stuffed into Clark’s hand before long. “I know you’re going to ask what that is, but this place, like everywhere else, doesn’t strike me as all that secure…”  
  
Clark opened his mouth to ask her why she was being so vague, when she covered his mouth. “I’m not asking you to put yourself on their radar, but this might give you some hints about who you need to look out for.”  
  
It was like the Wall of Weird condensed into one nice detective style flip notebook. Pages and half pages were dedicated to initials. Bullet points described fantastical things, abilities that should have been impossible, if not for the fact that the resident lived in Smallville.  
  
“Be careful. I have a feeling things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” A final warning that rang with a shocking level of certainty.  
  
Chloe shrugged off Clark’s attempt to help her pack. This was her right, an almost sacred ritual that she had to fulfill before she left-- an exorcism of her own demons.  
  
The image of Chloe compartmentalizing her years of work on the Torch into plain brown boxes was seared in Clark’s mind as a reminder of what had been lost.  


* * *

  
Talking to Pete turned into a nasty showdown, mostly as a result of Clark’s hurt feelings. Add to the list Lex’s letter and the day had been overwrought with more emotions than Clark could handle.  
  
He heard the mailbox close, though he hadn’t seen anyone. Clark had begun to formulate his own theory on how Lex’s letters found their way into the Kent family box. Magic was the second leading theory, but it made more sense that Lex had found someone with abilities—specifically the capability of moving faster than the wind or even Clark’s eye, which was scary in itself, to make his deliveries.  
  
Lex’s letters always looked like some cryptic passage from an epic poem of old. As he worked to topple the mighty fortress and the beast within, a modern day Grendel, Lex posed as Beowulf in Clark’s mind, ready and willing to set wrongs right.  
  
Lionel wasn’t a simple monster; he was something much worse. When Lex told him their friendship would be the stuff of legends, Clark never imagined that Lex’s father would become that dark spirit—the evil force that resided in all childhood tales of fantasy, who pillaged and spoiled Smallville like a raving dragon. Lionel was more terrifying than any fictional monster because his real power seemed endless.  
  
So Clark opened Lex’s letter.  
  
 _In the belly of the beast. Voices whisper from all directions. Misleading, full of guile. The only true spot of color is the memory of the beloved. Pure and righteous, off in a land of plenty with fresh zephyrs. The beast is hungry, stealing more and reaching far and wide. It does not sleep. It waits.  
  
I must reach its heart to strike it dead._  
  
Half the time, Clark didn’t understand Lex's ramblings, then there were times he could comprehend Lex’s quickly scribbled missives with amazing clarity. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Lex calling him ‘beloved’. Part of him felt like he was betraying Lex at the core by having his thing with Whitney. Though, there was another instinct that told him that Lex was right; they loved each other.  
  
It was best not to think about it too much. Footsteps were approaching--too heavy to be his mother’s and his father was still at the feed store. Clark looked out the loft window. Thirty to forty-five minutes remained of daylight. He rushed down the steps to the bottom floor of the barn.  
  
They didn’t have a signal or any real means of contacting each other. They just sort of knew when the other was needed. Clark’s loft and his bedroom were the only places they could meet. And Whitney leaned against the door frame waiting, a small smile resting on his lips as he watched Clark descend the stairs.  
  
Clark stopped before he reached the end. “You can come in, you know?”  
  
Whitney shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You still have to invite me in.” They had learned this by trial and error, when Whitney tried to enter Clark’s bedroom window a few nights after his change.  
  
“Come in,” Clark said.  
  
Whitney stepped inside the barn and slid the door shut behind him. They needed no prying eyes. Following Clark up the stairs to the loft, Whit’s eyes were sharply drawn to any and every move that Clark’s body made. He watched Clark shutter the loft bay window, his eyes tracing the long line of Clark’s back and down to the perfect swell of ass.  
  
It was a dance of sorts, a prelude of predator and prey interaction before they were overwhelmed by the need to be close. Clark played with the cuff on his flannel sleeve. He shyly gazed at Whitney, his eyes flicking to his visitor and away lest he be caught looking; Whitney’s want thrummed with each glance through his overgrown bangs. Those fickle aquamarine eyes held more sway over Whitney’s actions than the sun.  
  
He crowded Clark against the beat up old desk in the corner. So close, Clark’s scent poured through his senses and his blood started a delicious ache in his jaws, a maddening drive to drink from the supple font of Clark’s neck. The rapid beat of his pulse hit Whit’s eardrums like machine gun fire. His natural scent was of life like the earth and the sun in some sort of holy union.  
  
Clark made Whitney want.  
  
Made him need.  
  
Whit could almost read his mind like this, when they were so close. He knew something bothered Clark, most likely Lex.  
  
It was always Lex.  
  
He was partly right. Clark’s scent contained small quantities of heartbreak. The true and unsettling kind. Something that Chloe and Pete might cause.  
  
“Soon,” he promised. A few more times like this and he would be strong enough to break Wade’s deal and walk away and take Clark with him, whether Clark wanted to leave Smallville or not.  
  
Clark’s eyes shone in his face his like cut emeralds. “I know, but they’re scared. Everyone is afraid of you guys, of the night…Of what’s happening to the people who’ve disappeared.”  
  
“I know.” That sounded awful. It was admission that he knew he was destroying his home and the people in it for the sake of sating the plans of one man. He’d become an evil thing and had to do evil things to survive until he could do good.  
  
Clark made him good.  
  
The first kiss landed on Clark’s mouth, which was soft and pliant, flushed with blood and begging to be bruised under the power of Whitney’s mouth. The second landed on Clark’s chin. Kissing Clark was a sacred ritual for Whitney. It was the first step to making him warm. Clark would pull him closer, deeper, clutch at him beneath his shirt and infuse his cold skin with warmth. Those large hands were strong, their grip firm, but their touch was gentle—unnaturally soft.  
  
When Clark kissed him, he still felt human. He could taste the sugar from Mrs. Kent’s cookies on Clark’s tongue and it tasted sweeter than memory. In Clark’s mouth, he reveled in the simple human things like sweet, sour, hot, and bitter, and not the fact that those things tasted like dirt when he tried them on his own. Clark’s skin was sunshine, minus the blisters and burning of his new condition.  
  
He kissed Clark’s neck. His mouth latched onto the pulse point, tongue riding the beat, wave after wave as Clark’s heart pumped his wonderfully, potent life’s blood, teasing and working Whitney into frenzy. Whit was always so careful. One hand curled in Clark’s midnight black curls, the other perched on Clark’s barely covered hip; only two small pricks to tear the skin, just enough to give him a taste. It was enough to make him clamp down more, increase the pressure and force more of Clark into his veins.  
  
Clark squirmed beneath him. Now hard and aching, needing Whit closer, he rubbed against Whit’s thigh. Whitney continued to drink until he felt like he was burning up on the inside, on the cusp of bursting into flame with every added drop. Clark’s blood thawed his cold core too quickly. It felt like the sun was attempting to go supernova inside his chest, the rush—the incredible connection to life again. Everything was sharper now and more intense, making him feel almost human. That most important intangible thing which could make him human again would never be found.  
  
He was soulless.  
  
Forever.  
  
A damned thing.  
  
They rutted on the ground. Clark tasting him and taking his own blood back inside. Each kiss was far richer and more intoxicating that the last. Like this, he was dizzyingly drunk. No matter what, he always took Clark and drunk or not, he had enough sense to use a condom.  
  
Clark always looked disappointed when he pulled away to put one on; they were a circuit of light and dark, even if Clark didn’t know it.  
  
It wasn’t right; the time hadn’t come for him to give Clark some of his tainted essence. He needed Clark to remain pure.  
  
He couldn’t steal Clark’s soul, not after stealing so many others'.  
  
They were done and Whit could hear the sun’s retreat. The night was coming alive around them and his skin looked like it had been burnished by the sun. Clark looked up at him through tired yet satisfied eyes. Whit kissed his forehead before checking his neck--golden and perfect again.  
  
“Be careful,” Clark said, in place of asking him not to go.  
  
They dressed quickly in silence. Whit’s head perked up, as did Clark’s and they listened. The others were awake and Whit needed to go.  
  
Whit pulled Clark into a hug. He whispered into Clark’s hair and Clark relaxed against him. He was soulless, a cursed being, but he still felt one emotion in its purest form. _Love you._  
  
He was gone with the rising of the night.  


* * *

  
**Lex**

His lip still stung. He reached for the spot where blood had spilled over his fingers. The strength of the blow was like nothing he had ever seen before; if he weren’t a believer before, then he would’ve been one even more so now.  
  
She’d called herself the Angel of Vengeance. Swathed in black with dark smoldering eyes, portals to her soul filled with hate, she looked every inch the part. She had come to collect for his father’s misdeeds. Lex possessed neither the ability nor desire to pay this debt without forfeiting his own life.  
  
“Boss, you should head home.”  
  
In one night, he was chased by what he could best describe as an emissary of hell and saved by two bearers of the most sought after virtues: Hope and Mercy.  
  
The Angel of Vengeance hunted him, beat him at every turn, until he crouched in a corner, silently begging for Clark’s forgiveness for failing. His mouth ached and bled, his head throbbed from her vicious jabs. He waited for her to absolve his father’s debt.  
  
Then they came.  
  
Descended from the roof of the surrounding buildings of the alley and battled her. Two of them, light and dark working as a seamless unit. They fought until the Angel was too injured to continue. She fled into the night; the final sneer sent his way spoke of a lingering balance on the debt, to be resolved at a later time.  
  
His saviors for all that they possessed in skill and bravery, lacked in one distinct area: understanding. They were blank slates, capable of destructive force with little else to go on besides their names, Hope and Mercy.  
  
In their violence, he felt the full benefit of their namesakes. He would give them anything they could ask for; all he needed was loyalty.  
  
“In a minute,” Lex called from his office.  
  
The phone in his pocket vibrated suddenly. Lex removed his phone. Seeing the text message icon, he opened the interface. _Delivered_. His letter had been received.  
  
Hope and Mercy possessed more than incredible fighting skill and physical appeal. They had collected their own assortment of contacts during their time of aimless wandering. One in particular was in Lex’s employ, had been since he successfully stole Lex’s wallet. The boy, and he truly was that, was gifted with exceptional speed, even faster than Clark, if he suspected right. He’d given the boy the task of sending his letters, knowing this was the best way of staying off his father’s radar. The boy, Bart, had been reluctant at first, but he was loyal to Hope and Mercy, and possibly afraid of the terrifying ways they would seek to punish him if he did otherwise. Lex’s money—far more than the job warranted -- also engendered a certain level of dutiful service.  
  
Lex gestured for Mercy to wait. Even though, she and Hope wouldn’t be going anywhere without him at the moment, he wanted them close by just in case. His progress through the LuthorCorp files had been haltingly slow. Every bit of progress had to be covered, so as to not alert his father’s spies.  
  
He’d found this file days ago by accident. Buried deep within the charities and tax write-offs, it was by far the most encrypted and protected file he’d uncovered in the course of his search. It had to contain something useful.  
  
Lex wrote his own program to break the pass code. One character remained. Once he was inside, he’d save whatever he could, because undoubtedly someone would be watching. The feeling that someone was spying on him grew daily. Paranoia hung over him, more and more clouding his thoughts.  
  
The six character sequence flashed— _Segeth_ \-- on-screen before emptying and filling again with screen after screen of information. He saved as much as he could before a red and black box filled the screen flashing in warning that access was denied.  
  
The last words he read before the screen cut out: _Project Ares_.  


* * *

  
  
Whitney entered the warehouse as the others prepared to ride out. Wade smiled at him, giving him a look full of sly knowing, and blew him an air kiss before they kicked their bikes into life. “Let’s go, boys. We’ve got work to do.”  
  
“First, we feed,” Van reminded their leader.  
  
Wade licked his lips; his pearly fangs gleamed under the night lights. It was a perfectly beautiful feral smile. “We’ll feed, even though some of us were too greedy to wait for the rest.”  
  
The others teased Whitney. Wade rolled out with Van and Eric following. He closed his eyes, silently praying that whatever blood they spilled this night wouldn’t be innocent.  
  
Two years ago, this had all begun. He’d been a bystander then too.  
  
He watched Clark stumble through the corn with Lex Luthor supporting him. Clark’s scent hung in the air and permeated the fresh scent of late summer corn. They disappeared into the forest of stalks and Whitney remained silent and crouched, eyes suddenly drawn to the sky; he gasped.  
  
It was as if he was seeing the stars for the first time. Diamonds of light adorned the solid black sky, encrusting it with millennia of energy, distilled down to the most natural of physical occurrences in nature: light. Whitney tilted his head to the sky and bathed in the darkness, allowed the radiation of the moon and stars to blanket him into nocturnal serenity.  
  
Suddenly, his head was besieged. The sounds of life poured in from every direction. The corn whispered. The bats fluttered deeper in the forests. Birds slumbered. The night sang a beautiful chorus and Whit found himself being lulled after the initial overload.  
  
Then there.  
  
A sudden void of life in the distance.  
  
He was drawn back to the circle. They stirred. His brothers.  
  
He barely thought of where he wanted to go and found himself at the edge of the circle, watching as the others pulled themselves back to consciousness. Wade came to first, his eyes snapping open and glowing with an eerie pale blue luminescence.  
  
Van and Eric woke moments after, and if it had seemed that their minds were linked before, now they gave the impression of being one-- breathing alike, each breath entering and exiting in tandem. Wade’s eyes remained on Whitney and he grinned, a small knowing, but nonetheless congratulatory grin.  
  
It was on Whitney’s tongue to ask Wade what had he done to them, but Wade stood on the stone plate and sniffed the air, tilting his head like some feral creature and concentrated on some unseen thing. The corners of his smile seem more wild than human, then he nudged his head in the direction they were to follow.  
  
The others leapt from the stone and suddenly they were nearly blurring into nature. Whitney’s eyes held their progress in a steady gaze; they were fast, nearly the same as he. The night itself spoke to him, a tone soft and velvety. He, like the others, was at her beck and call. Her other dwellers calmed as they neared; the only sound remaining—a single heartbeat, steady and strong. The smell was sweet and inviting, urging him to come forward faster. His stomach rumbled with an eternal hunger, demanding to be sated.  
  
Whitney stopped himself before they reached the end of the woods. The others continued forward, while he watched. The lights of the Wild Coyote blazed and splashed the now subdued forest in clouds of neon red and blue. Some man, a drunk, stumbled towards his car and fumbled with his keys, and all the while a pack of predators moved closer.  
  
Something inside of Whitney caused him to stop, forced him to remain silent and watch. Not interfere, just watch the act of hunting. The man was unaware of the pack circling him. As Whit’s hunger grew, he found himself waiting for their victim to notice the stillness and accompanied small bursts of movement at his periphery, taunting him with small gusts of wind.  
  
Their entrance was quiet and sudden. They were in front of him-- Wade in his face with Eric and Van flanking him. There was the faintest whisper of conversation before Wade’s fingers ripped the man’s throat open and a fountain of intoxicating ambrosia was released. They dove on the man, biting, ripping, tearing; all the sounds were so brutal and the man’s body only trembled as they drank.  
  
A dark voice goaded Whitney to drink. Wade’s eyes held his and those handsome lips curved into a bloody smile around the man’s twitching neck. He ran, using their unnatural speed to disappear into the night. Wade’s eerie laughter floated in the air and the hunger burned  
  
Whitney’s stomach.  
  
The fear of not knowing what he’d become drove him faster and farther until he surrendered to the black hole below him.

* * *

It was so easy to forget about the task at hand. The reason they’re moving out into the near darkness to wait. When they were all fledglings without any real sense of what they were, or the sense to be afraid, Wade accidently sent them straight into the hands of their employer.  
  
Or as Whit had come to think of him—their owner.  
  
They did his bidding without asking any questions and in exchange they’re given a sort of free reign to feed at will, discretely but at will.  
  
Surprisingly, all the freedom they had didn’t make Whitney feel any better about what they’re doing or their role in it. They were treading a very fine line; one that could snap or pull taunt enough to choke at any second.  
  
So, they hunted. Like now, they waited, watching their prey that was too unfortunate to have come up on their radar. The eyes of his companions flashed almost black in the rising moonlight and their smiles gleamed with an eerie whiteness. Whitney tried hard to not feel like Judas right now, a hard task indeed, especially when he thought of Clark.  
  
And all of his former classmates and neighbors that he’d sent into Lionel Luthor’s clutches and the prison of Belle Reve.  
  
No wonder he tried to not feel a lot of things most days.  
  
Their servitude commenced as a consequence of one of Wade’s bright ideas. As their defacto leader, Wade set the rules whereby they were to feed and pick the bodies clean. Those rules held up until they discovered the other abilities waiting for them. Walking through walls upped the ante big time. Of course, Wade wanted to hit the biggest fish the hardest. Little Luthor was fine, but Daddy Luthor was the whale that they’d all been waiting for, Wade believed.  
  
Whitney had been in seclusion back then, fighting the hunger and the sensory overload when Wade and the rest found him that night. That was how he joined in on their little adventure that forever bound them to Daddy Luthor for the foreseeable future.  
  
Nestled in a dark corner of his childhood room, Whitney waited afterwards, testing his new found yoke as a bloodhound to Satan Incarnate.  
  
The sun had set some time ago and he fought the urge to flee, straight out the window.  


* * *

  
  
After they’d caught some unlucky soul and done the devil’s bidding, Whitney found himself back at the barn. Though Clark had long since gone in the house, his scent lingered and stirred a hunger within Whit. He leapt to the tree beside Clark’s window and waited. Clark had a sense about these things and instinctually knew when Whitney was there.  
  
No sooner had Clark invited him in, than they were all over each other. Again, Whitney was famished. Despite the blood he’d drank, the hunger was resistant, growing deeper inside his hollow gut as he was enveloped by Clark’s scent. The sparkle of Clark’s eyes and his scent filled Whitney with a desire and drove his hunger to madness.  
  
When his teeth pierced Clark’s skin, it was like euphoria and pure terror all in one drop. He was just one point in the universe, a point that was singular yet so important, just like Clark. So small in the course of the universe, but so important. They were possibility in an infinite plan. One set of destined points that had to exist.  
  
He swallowed.  
  
In Clark’s blood, he watched the universe be created and flare to life. He felt it--the spark of life and the cold tug of death. He had so much more now, almost too much, as he continued to draw bigger mouthfuls. Whit slowed his suckling. From the sticky crimson swamp of his mouth, words spilled over his tongue, some that he did not yet know, but touched the very center of his being. Something ruptured inside; the words tumbled out of his mouth, sounding melodic and heavy on his tongue. He was scared he didn’t have the breath to finish.  
  
Clark responded in kind, in foreign words that left Whit’s fragile core strengthened; all the fissures were healed.  
  
He watched Clark’s eyes, which passed from green to arctic blue, so cold and pristine. It was like watching the earth meet the sky and Whit was helpless; he couldn’t turn away, so he watched-- captivated, his hunger falling as Clark’s words washed over him. Then, he found a relative peace where he almost felt like he had before; Clark stopped him from falling into a soulless abyss.  
  
He knew there was no end to this. Clark looked at him with large green eyes begging him to take, to drink, and Whitney realized this was the only thing for him. Clark was saving him just as quickly as Whitney was damning him.  
  
He’d keep Clark safe. Keep Wade away.  
  
His mission coursed through his veins as the moon rose higher.  
  
Clark was his just as sure as Wade was waiting for him with the others. They were the monsters that hid from the light and thrived in the shadows.  
  
It was remarkable to Whitney that after draining Clark, _he_ was the one with his head in Clark’s lap as long warm fingers stroked his scalp. Clark’s skin hovered between its normal golden color and café au lait saturated with too much cream.  
  
It was remarkable to Whitney that after draining Clark, he was the one with his head in Clark’s lap as long warm fingers stroked his scalp. Clark’s skin hovered between its normal golden color and café au lait saturated with too much cream.  
  
His head hung lazily above Whitney, who simply watched Clark’s face and allowed the sated fullness within his body to drag him under into a lazy nirvana-like haze. He was almost normal then.  
  
Of course, he began to take a page from his favorite TV vampire and became maudlin , brooding like a protagonist in any work written by Edgar Allen Poe. His fingers toyed with Clark’s hair, skittering down the slope of Clark’s neck to finally rest at the mouth of his t-shirt.  
  
“Do you think I have a soul?” Whitney asked as his finger rocked around the cotton rim of Clark’s shirt. “I wonder if I still have a soul,” he rephrased.  
  
“You do, Whit.” Clark sighed, closed his eyes for a second, then focused on the steely unnatural blue hue of Whitney’s eyes. “Definitely more than I.”  
  
Something about Clark’s declaration made Whitney irrationally angry. They had done horrible things, many of which Clark didn’t even know the half of, and for him to believe that he was the soulless one in the room sent Whitney into a simmering rage.  
  
Before he could stop himself, his hand shot up and gripped the bottom half of Clark’s face in a fierce grip. “I don’t want to ever hear you say that again.” Clark’s eyed widened and regarded him cautiously. “We’re the monsters. I know saying it aloud doesn’t change the fact that I allowed Luthor to make me into something far worse than what I am. But that’s not you. You’re different. Better.”  
  
“I know being--” Clark searched for words. “--Full makes you relaxed, but you don’t have to offer me a confession. I don’t deserve it.”  
  
“I can’t confess to anyone, except you, Clark,” Whitney acknowledged. “Wade wanted to go for a big score, was sick of nickel and diming it all over town, so he decided to bust out a few windows and see what was good inside.” He tilted his head up. “You’ve been inside; you’ve seen the goods.”  
  
“Yeah, some.”  
  
“So, we know it’s empty. Young Luthor--” Whitney’s sarcasm was palpable as he spit out Lex’s nickname.  
  
“Lex,” Clark corrected hastily.  
  
Though Whitney was entirely unrepentant. “It’s been empty for awhile. The boys were busy going through a few drawers and knocking over things downstairs while I went with Wade to the upstairs floors.”  
  
“Why would you do it?”  
  
“Because.” Whitney stared at the ceiling and allowed the sounds of the night to wash over him. “It was a distraction…As long as I was doing something else, I wouldn’t have to think about it--” the hunger “--or you.”  
  
“Sure, Lex is my friend, but even I know that digging too deep with Luthors gets you into more trouble than you’ve bargained for. No cliché, not this time.”  
  
“Well, we hadn’t expected to run into the old man and four armed security guards with him. I’m still not sure how it would have gone if we’d fought. It still surprises the hell outta me that Old Man Luthor found a kindred spirit in Wade. Said he knew what we were and how to help us.”  
  
“But you can’t change back.”  
  
“I know. Satisfying another form of hunger is what he offered. Wade liked the sound of power, even more than money.”  
  
Clark’s eyes were drawn to the open window. In the darkness, he could hear the sounds of heartbeats, much like Whitney, except the sounds of the heartbeats he listened to didn’t beat rapidly in fear. The ones that were asleep fluttered like snare drums, muffled like the sound of hummingbird wings inside a wind tunnel. The fear hung over the town in the hours without light, invaded their dreams with an insidious touch that burrowed itself deep and was unyielding.  
  
“They’re scared, Whit. Everyone’s scared.”  
  
It was on the tip of Whit’s tongue to reassure Clark that he would be fine. But then, he remembered the words of Doc Holiday in his favorite movie growing up, saying that his hypocrisy only went so far. He wouldn’t lie like that. Not to Clark. Not after he had fed from Clark countless times.  
  
Whitney drew himself off Clark’s lap and rubbed the valley between his eyes as if a headache was emerging. The gesture was a reminder of the life that was no longer his; the possibility of ever having such a mundane human reaction again made him ache in nostalgia. “I can’t smell it on you the way I can smell it on others.” He sighed.  
  
His eyes swept over the dusty floorboards up the façade of Clark’s work boots and faded denim covered legs and finally rested on the wide spread of Clark’s fingers. “I fool myself into thinking that you’re not afraid. Or have no reason to be afraid.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
Clark lied. Mostly to protect himself, he still told lies to his friends, to Whitney and Lex. “You are and I know it.” The tone of his voice brooked no argument. Clark’s eyes remained a turbid green and were extremely angry. His jaw clenched and he remained silent. “Saw a sign in front of the Ross’ place.” Whit’s eyes swept over Clark’s face, silent apology clear in his own eyes. “I know he’s your friend, but I gotta say it’s good he’s leaving.”  
  
“Yeah, his mom found a job in Topeka. The thing with Tina--” Clark caught Whitney’s flinch from the corner of his eye. “They’ve been planning on leaving for awhile.”  
  
During the day when the others slept and Whitney laid awake with the sounds of the captured and doomed in his ears, he reconciled himself to the notion that he was death incarnate. He rose from the battered couch and walked to the same window he’d entered through. “I wish your parents would leave too.”  
  
“Not going to happen, Whit. This place is my father’s veins and mine too. You can’t leave simply because things are rough.”  
  
Smallville was a town that lived on the razor’s edge of oblivion and hope. The two forces balanced each other out before the one got too high. Whitney wasn’t sure there was anything to rein in the events set in motion by Lionel with the assistance of Wade and his crew.  
  
“Just promise me you won’t do anything that brings attention to you.” Clark’s brow furrowed in worry. “I know you’ve done a good job of it, but anything that draws attention to you--”  
  
Clark cut him off with hand on his shoulder and they were suddenly face to face. His fingers curled around Whit’s jacket-covered forearm. “I will. Between you, my parents, and Lex--” He pursed his lips and held Whitney’s gaze, daring him to begin his verbal assault on Lex again.  
  
When no attempt at sarcasm or enmity came, Clark continued. “I’ll be careful, if you promise to do the same.”  
  
“Don’t worry about me. I’m the brooding vampire in residence around these parts, so I get to be the hero.” Whitney leaned in, scenting Clark’s neck before kissing him hard on the lips. He smiled against Clark’s mouth. “I might have a surprise for you in a few days…don’t think I’ll be around earlier than that.”  
  
Clark pushed the loft window open a little wider and scanned the darkness. “I guess the same warning applies to you too. Be careful.” They shared another kiss before Whitney's blue eyes flashed with eerie luminescence and he jumped into the field and sped away. Clark marveled at seeing someone move with his speed.  
  
The other viewer of Whitney’s little feat was amused all the same.  


* * *

  
**Lex**   


Project Ares was exactly as Lex would have dreamed a perfect nightmare would be. The project dated back to days after the meteor shower. Properties were bought; others seized through backdoor deals and intimidation.  
  
Pete Ross had been right in his assessment of Luthor deeds and ambitions. His father had stolen the Ross factory and countless other properties throughout the town and had literally turned Smallville into a giant Petri dish. What he didn’t understand was how something of this size could go on without the government being aware of it. There was enough within the files to indict his father several lifetimes over.  
  
The first hundred or so detailed projects involved basic meteor experimentation, all of which were done in Smallville. Earl Jenkins was the first casualty of his father’s madness and he wouldn’t be the last. LuthorCorp was in deep with the government, just the sound of soldier defense projects left a leaden weight in the pit of Lex’s stomach. Those were even more secretive and weren’t being housed in Smallville. The records for Belle Reve seemed more like records regarding donations for tax write-offs. It wasn’t until he began to read the line items that Lex knew he found the heart of Lionel’s operation.  
  
He turned to Mercy. “I need you to find the following in the LuthorCorp archives: Parcel XG-3674, Item 2704B-X, Items 1290- T, Item 7783-P, and Item 5816-W.” He included lower level priority search items and discretely passed them to Mercy. “I have a hunch that whatever you’ll find won’t be equipment suited for facilities in an asylum.”  
  
Mercy unfolded the list and quickly memorized the highest priority items. “If I can guess correctly, can I get a prize?”  
  
Lex smirked at her. “We’re close, Mercy. You know what that means?”  
  
“It means the fun is about to begin. Don’t worry, Boss. Hope and I brought our dancing shoes.”  
  
Hope laughed with Mercy, together the sound was harmonious, like light and dark. She waited for her assignment, which was more closely related to his father. He hadn’t trusted anyone to monitor the man’s accounts. Yet, a group called the Smallville Consultants collected a routine monthly sum from his father for activities deemed “surveillance and acquisition”.  
  
“Hope, I’d like you to find out who the members are of this consulting group and find out what exactly they’ve been doing for my father?”  
  
Alone later in the evening, he sat with the map he was making of all of his father’s deeds. The action was constructed more like a web than a pyramid. Ultimately, the pieces were connected, but some of the links were vague. The final goals were easily guessed, because his father was a master puppeteer. Papers were spread across Lex’s desk and the floor, clearly a sign of the disorder and power his father had to make him lose control.  
  
A project called Daylight was the only assignment for the Smallville Consultants and also written with Lionel’s signature code to suggest that their collaboration was at an end. More and more, he wished he could simply hire Chloe Sullivan and Veronica Mars to do his bidding. They could be a pint-sized version of Hope and Mercy.  
  
Speaking of one of the taller she-devils, Lex’s phone rang. “That was quick even for you, Mercy,” he said.  
  
“Sir, I found those items you’re looking for and I’m expecting my reward to either be fast or dangerous.”  
  
Lex found the ability to laugh, despite the eruption of more madness with each passing second.  
  
“That’s why I pay you the big bucks, Mercy.”  
  
Lex hung up the phone and retreated back into the silence of his work. It was a matter of a minute before his phone rang again.  
  
Just like any series of unfortunate events, it capped off with the explosion of a scud missile that sounded so much like his father’s voice.  
  
Lionel’s gleam, even when carried over a phone line, was ever blinding like sunlight reflecting off the surface of a samurai sword. “Lex, son, if you wanted to know what I was doing, you could have simply asked.”  
  
“Father.”  
  
“Word of advice, son.” The knife of his mouth swung back before thrusting in for a killing blow. “’It’s never too late to jump on the bandwagon, though I’ll warn you to watch where you step. What you’re doing looks a lot like corporate espionage.” He chortled darkly. “That’s the outsider’s perspective or the security team I pay to make sure LuthorCorp business stays private. To me, it seems like I should be proud.”  
  
“That depends on what you’re doing, father. It also depends on who gets hurt.”  
  
“Lex, my boy--” His father only twisted the knife. “The important people won’t be hurt.”  


* * *

  
  
The first two days following drinking Clark’s blood, Whitney found himself playing possum during his daylight sleeping hours.  
  
He could walk around in the sun and feel almost absolved, even go visit his little discovery out by the old Jenkins place. He wondered if the dog had come from LuthorCorp, if maybe Earl had taken it before he got fired, because it sure as hell wasn’t a regular dog. Clark would like it though. That was why Whitney snuck out to feed it.  
  
“Sneaky, sneaky snake.” Wade stepped out of the shadows. “Where have you been?”  
  
“Nowhere.”  
  
Wade cocked a disbelieving brow. “Now, don’t tell tales, bro.” His lips pursed in amusement. “ ‘s not cool, so where’ve you been?”  
  
Whitney stood with his back straight, eyes falling every move of the other vampire. “Like I said, nowhere.”  
  
Wade approached Whitney, circled him, and stopped short to sniff his neck. “Do I get a prize if I can smell ‘em on you?” He ran his tongue over his teeth, pointedly stroking the fangs. “Or will I get the prize.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Of course, you do.” They were so close; Whitney could still smell the blood from a previous kill on Wade’s breath. Wade suddenly reached out, grabbing Whitney’s face, digging his fingers deep along the skin of Whit’s cheeks. A small swell of blood rose along the surface. Whitney’s eyes remained forward as Wade caressed his nose along Whitney’s cheek before licking the drop of blood.  
  
Wade smacked his lips, savoring the taste on his lips. “Delicious, Whit, you really must share.” Wade leaned into Whitney, leveling his mouth close to Whit’s ear. “You taste better when you lie.”  
  
His voice pitched lower, making Whitney shiver. “You realize we’re going to get him. Whether Papa Luthor gets him or we do, it’s only a matter of time.”  
  
Whitney’s jaw flared in anger, though he refused to rise to Wade’s bait. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Sure,” Wade said as drew away and walked in reverse, “you say that now. Remember, bro, all those never say nevers catch up with you and tasting crow ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.” With that parting shot, Wade returned to Eric and Van and riled them up for the night’s hunt.  
  
Funny how that future he kept thinking about seemed to be getting closer and closer. The dogs of war were coming. He could smell it in the air and it was only a matter of time before they were all burned by the fire of their own making.  
  
Whether Clark wanted to leave or not, Whitney would make him go, use the meteor rock if he had to. The others were bound to the night, to the shadows during the day; another feeding or two and he’d be free. He’d grab Clark then, get him on the back of his bike and hightail it out of Smallville-- never looking back on the monsters in his past or demons baying for retribution.  
  
His future was Clark and blood.  
  
With them, Whitney would have the sun.


End file.
